


Enough

by Trobadora



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-16
Updated: 2008-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/pseuds/Trobadora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He'll take that, just this once.</i> - Set toward the end of <i>Last of the Time Lords</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough

He feels light.

He feels strangely light, elated almost, working with Jack, kneeling under the console and repairing the TARDIS, bantering, joking. She's not really broken, of course - the Paradox Machine was undone, and the only thing left of it are echoes in the time stream. Something the TARDIS can feel, reverberating through her guts, the same as the Doctor can feel them - they are connected to the vortex after all, the both of them. He wonders if Jack can feel it too, having been remade by the vortex, or if the thing that made him is completely removed from his perception.

UNIT has things well in hand on the Valiant now. And while Martha is off taking care of her family, trying to get them through the aftermath of the year of hell that, unfortunately, hasn't been undone for them – while she is dealing with other kinds of wounds, he and Jack are tinkering, keeping the TARDIS company while pretending to perform important repairs: soothing more than mending.

Stalling. Dithering. Hanging on to the moment.

"Catch!"

Jack throws him something – he has to scramble to catch it without letting go of the overhead latch he is holding open in order to fiddle with the circuits of the dimensional stabiliser, and just barely manages not to drop the sonic screwdriver in the process. His right hand above him, the screwdriver jammed under his left arm, he twists to get a good look at the new object even as Jack peeks around the console, laughing: "Nice moves, Doctor." He's probably waggling his eyebrows too, but the Doctor can't turn around without dropping one thing or another, or - more likely - everything at once.

"Always told you I had them," he answers distractedly while turning the laser spanner Jack has tossed him over in his left hand. "Hey, I didn't know I still had one of these! Thought my last one got nicked."

Jack snorts. "You always take this good care of your stuff? You know, that reminds me of the time I spent on Alaris Minor, you know, the 35th century trading centre in the system with the twin suns? There was a great little bar, too – their cocktails put the purest hypervodka to shame. Anyway, last time I was there I met this guy who ..."

He lets Jack's chatter wash over him - it soothes him, even as their tinkering soothes the TARDIS, as the very fact of an _audience_ for his prattle seems to soothe Jack. What does Jack think he's doing? Does he think at all? Most likely not; he's just falling back into established patterns of behaviour. Better than thinking, probably. Easier than talking about anything that might matter. Jack's always been most at ease when performing: letting him slip back into his favourite role is probably a mercy.

It's easier for the Doctor too, this fake normalcy Jack is constructing, but he's not about to think about that right now.

Does Jack know? Just whom is he doing this for?

Does it even matter, when it offers him the mercy of _now_, with no thought to past or future?

It's no less meaningful than anything else, certainly: the only thing that still matters right now is the thin thread of reality, the ties he feels to the TARDIS, to the Vortex, to Jack.

"Oh, stop it," he mutters in Jack's general direction.

On the other side of the console, Jack snorts.

After last year, after the horrors of the Master's madness poured upon the world, after the pain and the loss and the grief that followed, neither of them should be _joking_, of all things, nor smiling at each other quite like this. But it's like all of that has been suspended, as if Jack's uncanny ability to make the most of every moment has rubbed off on him for once so that he's not looking beyond the now.

He'll take that, just this once.

He doesn't care if he's repressing - the emptiness in his mind is not quite as oppressive, with Jack's eternal presence soothing the part of him that's ready to despair, with Jack himself by his side taking his mind off his worries, bantering as if nothing has happened. He can't quite meet the tone, but he's trying, and that's good enough for now.

It'll have to be.

Jack, who's been knee-deep into the TARDIS innards, recalibrating the time vector generator, climbs out of the space under the time rotor and comes across to the Doctor's side of the console, trailing his fingers over the controls, gently, soothingly – he can feel the TARDIS respond, to the intention if not the actual touch.

"Stop flirting with my ship," the Doctor grumbles, half-heartedly, holding out a hand for Jack to pull him up.

"Well, if you insist…"

Jack, with the devil in his eyes, pulls him to his feet with slightly more force than is strictly necessary, and the Doctor tumbles against him. Before he can regain his balance, Jack plants a smack on his mouth, and - -

He's never kissed Jack before.

Jack kissed him once, back when he was still mortal. But the Doctor has never actually kissed Jack in turn.

Oh, they've flirted, since the beginning. For Jack, it's second nature, after all. And who could resist, when it's as good-natured and playful as this?

Playful - that's what this was supposed to be too, he's sure. A diversion, or a challenge, delivered with Jack's trademark smirk that morphed into something softer when the Doctor's expected put-down doesn't come.

It wasn't supposed to mean anything, but this time, somehow the Doctor can't stop himself from responding, from holding on, from pushing it further. When they finally come apart, they're both breathing harshly, and he's gripping Jack's shoulders, unable to let go.

Jack is holding him just as tightly.

He shouldn't be doing this.

He shouldn't _need_ this.

"Dreamed of this, didn't you?" he tries to tease, but he suspects it doesn't come out as light-hearted as he'd like. Harsh and accusatory, more likely - but he's trying. Trying.

"Yeah." Jack is grinning. Not taking offence. Of course not - this is Jack, after all. "You looked a bit different in my dreams, though."

His former self? Or is Jack referring to the aged version of him, during that last year? It wouldn't make a difference to him; Jack really only sees the Doctor. The age, the changed appearance, the mannerisms - he sees right through all that. The Doctor is sure of it: Jack would have responded the same way no matter how the Doctor looked. As a human, he may never be able to understand what it means to be a Time Lord, but he sees _him_.

And he doesn't expect anything - not even to be seen in return.

"Jack." He leans his forehead against Jack's shoulder.

He can feel Jack take a deep breath. "Doctor –"

"Yes?" he mumbles into his shoulder.

Jack lets his breath out again. "Nothing," And he pulls him closer, closer against his chest. Jack, as always, living in the moment. Taking what's offered, without questions, without expectations.

As Jack's arms tighten around him, for a moment he almost panics - -

\- - but no, this is Jack, he is safe here, he can give himself without holding back - Jack always, always will let him go again.

It's why this would be so easy.

It's a damn good reason not to be doing this, that's what it is. But he can't seem to let go. Can't seem to stop.

He's usually good at keeping people at arm's length. But Jack? Won't take any rebuff personally. Won't really _mind_, doesn't expect anything else. Even after all the grief the Doctor has caused him, Jack holds no grudge; there is no reservation in him now. He lives in the moment, enjoying it to the fullest. Not without seeing the rest, but setting it completely aside.

Yes, he can have this. Why not? Why ever not?

One night in the TARDIS, before things get back to normal. Before Martha gets back, before Jack, most likely, leaves again.

He clutches at him and pulls him down to the floor, tumbling - finally, finally - oh, this is so good. Pulling off their clothes, frantically, hands everywhere, until they're skin on skin. Skin on skin, and he can feel Jack - it doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all that his presence doesn't feel the slightest bit like another Time Lord's - he can _feel_ him, the way he's not felt anyone he touched since – well, since much too long ago. He was alone and blind, blinded, but now he can see. This is _real_.

He's saying something of this aloud, he's sure, kissing, nibbling, licking, biting, babbling, all intermingled, spilling out of him, trying to take it all in - and Jack is laughing, smiling against his skin.

He hears - feels - the laughter through his flesh.

"So you're only sleeping with me because I'm immortal?" Jack smirks and winks at him, laughing when the Doctor slaps his biceps in response - it's not accusation in the least. And that - that - - a tiny, selfish part of him loves Jack just for that.

"What does it feel like?" Jack is serious now, with something behind his eyes that the Doctor can't fully make out.

He hesitates - part of him wants to hold back, but before he's properly made up his mind, the words come tumbling out of him: "Like fear. Like terror, sheer roiling terror in your gut. Like a nightmare, closing in on you - you want to run, but you're paralysed. Like Truth, singeing you, burning you to cinders with its touch." He looks deeply into Jack's eyes, trying to imprint the knowledge onto him. Better this way - better that he should know. Let him make of it what he will.

Jack stares at him for a moment. Then, deliberately, slowly, he bends over the Doctor and kisses him. Thoroughly, deeply. When he finally relents, they are both panting harshly. "You love it," Jack whispers against his lips. "Don't you?"

It's a gentle accusation, mild as it could be, but it burns. Oh, it burns. The Doctor pulls away, averts his eyes, takes a moment to catch his breath.

"And you?" He's lashing out, now, blindly, trying to hit a spot. "You get off on it, don't you? That you have that kind of effect on me? Do you like it, having that kind of power? Does it give you the revenge you dreamed of?"

But Jack's laughter is warm. "Doctor, _you_ are the one who gets off on it - I'm just along for the ride." He nips the Doctor's neck, gently. "Not that I mind."

And then, then - then, something snaps, and it's not good enough any more, really not good enough at all. This is what Jack sees, the Doctor has known that all along - but oh, he has it all wrong, so very very wrong, and he can't _stand_ it any more.

He pushes Jack backwards, roughly, and lets himself fall on top of him when his back hits the floor.

"No no no, don't be stupid - will you stop jumping to conclusions like that! Over a hundred years old and still so stupid."

He suspects he's a little frantic - more frantic than usual; the part of him that's always outside each moment, outside time, that's always _apart_ is railing at him to pull back. But it's being drowned out by the haze of despair and anger and need and _Jack_.

He kisses Jack, with everything he has, not gentle at all, not tender, with all the force and power he can bring into it. Jack welcomes him, of course - Jack always welcomes him. And right now, that infuriates him.

He reaches between Jack's legs.

"You're an idiot. Stupid baboon. Do you have any brains in that head of yours?" Roughly, he shoves a finger into the man. Jack moans, spreading his legs a little wider, open, so open to him.

How can the man be so complacent? How can he live in the moment that much? How can he take pleasure in someone he believes doesn't even _see_ him?

The preparation is cursory at best, which is all he can do, now. Jack can take him like this. Wants it, even, if his grin is any indication, though he does hiss when the Doctor pushes inside with one almost vicious thrust. The Doctor holds still for a moment, feeling, just feeling this. It's burning, Jack's very being is burning against his skin. It almost hurts, but it's real. _Real._.

And yet...

"I'd get it out of you," he whispers, harshly, into Jack's skin. "I'd get it out of you, if I could, just to prove you wrong. Wrong wrong wrong,", he gasps, punctuating his speech with sharp thrusts of his hips, "so very very wrong, and not the space-time continuum out-of-whack kind of wrong, just - you stupid ape, you've got it all wrong!"

Jack - Jack's been quiet during his onslaught, not resisting at all. But now he grabs the Doctor's shoulders, pushing him back, making him slip out. Pushing the Doctor onto his back, staring down at him. "You don't mean that."

But he does, he does. It's more, it's not just the burn, the feeling, it's so much more. He pulls Jack closer, closer against him, kisses him, arches up against his body.

Jack grinds down, reflexively, pulling a face as if his body is betraying him, but doesn't stop.

The Doctor holds on. A final gasp, and - "You," he says, incoherently, "you - - "

Does Jack believe it? He doesn't know. But he's here, and that is enough. That is enough.


End file.
